


By Any Other Name (Or, Max Trevelyan is a Bastard)

by morrnrhu64



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dorian Pavus/Trevelyan - Freeform, Dorian is long-suffering, M/M, Pavelyan - Freeform, Pavelyan?, Pavus/Trevelyan, Slight Hurt/Comfort, but nothing graphic, but trying to overcome fear of intimacy, emotionally stunted dudes in love, fear of intimacy, my inquisitor's a dick, references to childhood abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 19:45:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8681041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morrnrhu64/pseuds/morrnrhu64
Summary: Inquisitor Max Trevelyan has a question for his lover in the middle of the night.Dorian is not amused.





	

'Oi, Dorian.'

Dorian is rudely poked awake by his inconsiderate lover.

'Amatus, if you are going to do this every time I spend the entire night here, then I may well decide to stay in my own room instead.' But he does open his eyes and look at Max. 'Well, what is it?'

'It's just one quick question, I swear,' says Max, probably deceitfully. 'I woulda waited 'til morning, but it's been nagging at me for a while, now.'

'Ah. Ask away,' says Dorian, with patience above and beyond the situation likely deserves.

'Right, so,' says Max, raking his hair back out of his face with one hand in a way that he knows with _great certainty_ Dorian finds distracting, 'I was wondering... for a while now, you've been calling me 'amatus'. At least, I think you're calling me it. 'Cause I've learnt to answer to it. It seems like an address, anyway. You don't really ever call me "Max", do you? Well, at any rate, I was wondering what 'amatus' means. Or is. So. Would you tell me?'

As charming as the garrulous fellow can be, Dorian had never intended to fully... explain that. Not but that he doesn't adore his amatus--he does. But it isn't really the done thing to be so... open about it. 

Truth be told, Dorian wishes he had the confidence to be openly affectionate with his lover. To be able to tell Max point-blank what his feelings are. But a lifetime of being socialised to hush those messy, unpleasant emotions up, to never betray what he really thought, to be ever on his guard against weakness... well. Dorian might dislike it, but it's a hard thing to unlearn.

Equivocation, therefore, is a time-honoured tradition.

'Would I?' Dorian says, affecting surprise. 'Why, I don't know. I suppose I _could_. But whether I will or not is...'

'Dorian,' Max laughs. 'You know what I meant. It's too late for grammar lessons.'

'There is never a bad time to learn,' Dorian says firmly. 'Sometimes I think you pretend to be stupider than you really are, just to catch people off-guard.'

'Might do,' he says conspiratorially. 'Might be that I'm a total loony.'

'You are certainly a "loony". The question is whether you are an intelligent loony or a lucky one.'

'Can it not be both?' Max is grinning wide enough that Dorian can sort of see his teeth in the almost-darkness of his chamber. It never gets completely dark in there--not with the moon reflecting so strongly off of the snowy mountains that surround the keep, or the magically-stoked fire that Dorian must tend at all times if Max insists on sleeping in a bloody tundra.

Also, it adds to the ambience. That never hurts.

'I suppose it can,' Dorian allows. 'Still. Neither precludes you from speaking intelligibly.'

'I dunno, you were speaking pretty unintelligibly just a few hours ago...' Max teases, brushing his fingertips along Dorian's side, which he knows damn well is rather ticklish, the bastard.

'Oh, very well,' Dorian gripes, stealing more of the blanket to protect himself. 'What did you want, again?'

'Amatus,' says Max. 'What is it? What does it mean?'

Dorian sighs, and his woefully messy hair flops unforgivably on his forehead. Max's fault, entirely--he doesn't appreciate the fact that not everyone can get away with the 'roguishly scruffy' look that he and Varric both gad about in.

'Amatus. It's a... a term of endearment. In Tevene. You know, like how I use the old swear-words and such. Shows how educated I am, that I can say "shit" in a half-dead language.'

'Oh,' says Max. 'I get it. That's... really interesting, actually. I remember you said--what was the one? It's like, shitting on someone's tongue...?'

'Vishante kaffas,' Dorian recites. '"You shit on my tongue". Yes, it's like that.'

'All right. So if that's what that one means, what about "amatus"? Like, literally?'

Dorian glares at him, but it's entirely possible that Max doesn't notice--either because it's dark(ish) or because he's an insensitive cad for not going unquestioningly along with Dorian's pathologically internalised repression and self-hatred. 

Or, well, it _is_ rather late at night. That could be the reason.

Either way, it means that he's still expecting an answer, and in all honesty, there is a part of Dorian that wants to give it. A reckless, self-destructive little part, but a part, nonetheless. After all, he knows Max. And Max, despite his brash, hot-headed nature, is also a ridiculously sentimental person. He has no shame about his promiscuity and drunkardly ways--or, if he does have shame, he still consciously chooses to ignore it, as though to punish himself or entice others into punishing him... _for_ him. He has very little in the way of finesse and refinement--except for the bit instilled in him from a young age, which he rejects and despises because he sees it as a vestige of his much-hated (and deservedly so) father. Despite appearances, there is very much a duality in Max, and it would be a lie for Dorian to say that it didn't intrigue him. Not as a puzzle to be solved--but as a person whose character study had ever more pages and footnotes to be added, and who was well-worth the extra ink it'd call for.

This is Max, who had the courage to tell Dorian the truth about his issues with intimacy and trust. Max, who no longer feels the need to always wear a shirt in Dorian's presence--an act of confidence which, despite its seeming triviality, means a great deal to Dorian (who, incidentally, is a somewhat sentimental person, himself. But he fights it harder.).

It's that, ultimately, which makes Dorian heave a sigh of exaggerated annoyance--but still answer the question, anyway.

'Amatus. It's... it's like "darling" or "beloved". You know--things like that.'

For an interminable few seconds, there is only silence, and Dorian worries that Max can hear his thunderous heartbeat.

But then:

'What--really? That's feckin' adorable! And you were calling me out for being calf-eyed at puppies? Fuck, you're just as bad as I am, and you know it, don't you?'

'Why did I think you'd be an adult about this?' Dorian laments to the ceiling. 

'Sleep dep?' Max suggests, turning over to lean his bristly, rarely-shaven chin on Dorian's chest, and no doubt giving the skin there an angry, reddish mark. The bastard. 'Or maybe you're secretly a romantic--as bad as Cassandra, or worse, aye?'

'Your subtlety knows no bounds, amatus,' Dorian says dryly.

'You love that about me.'

'We certainly sound confident about it.'

'Aye. 'Cause I know it's true. 'Cause I know you wish you were assured like that. So if I keep on reassuring you, it'll help you learn to be assured, yourself,' says Max, with terrifying acuity. 'Er. You know. Like, embarrassing you 'til you're not embarrassed anymore. Keep playing a lute, and your fingers get calloused, yeah? And eventually, you can play for a long time without feelin' it. It's like that. Maybe.'

Dorian has a rule about crying. It is, of course, an unacceptable thing to do, and he will never admit to taking part in the act, even under threat of death. If, for any reason, his eyes are traitorous enough to be wet in the presence of others, he will manfully fight them--and be sure to never, ever become teary-eyed in those witnesses' presence again, on pain of death, so help him.

Max. Stupid, _stupid_ Max and his ability to obliterate any rule he comes across.

First with the whole debacle with Dorian's father, then the damned amulet incident, and now this?

Bastard. _Bastard_.

It's a good thing Dorian can endure him, or else who knows who'd put up with that Maxwell Trevelyan?

This time, Dorian's eyes have the nerve to further shame him by actually letting some of those abhorrent tears leave--dribble wantonly down his cheek, and over the slightly prominent freckle that Max makes a production of kissing at least thrice per day (" _Oi, it's for luck--three is a lucky number, Dorian_.") The bastard.

So then Dorian is subjected to warm, calloused fingers brushing away those tears as gently as their owner can manage (which isn't exactly the fluttering of a butterfly's wings, but isn't an axe to the face, either). Said owner also murmurs embarrassing, unnecessary, but pleasant sweet nothings in Dorian's ear, liberally peppered with 'aye's, 'love's, and various Sera-isms (because you can take the man out of the tavern, but...).

'I really don't know what you see in me.' Dorian at last admits defeat. 'This can't have been your idea of a good relationship.'

'It's better than anything I ever dared to hope for,' says Max, because he is a _bastard_ , and also apparently unaware of how dangerous his naive honesty is. 'Sometimes I still can't believe it's real. But then you give me that look--aye, that one, there. And it makes me laugh. You make me laugh, Dorian. You're my best friend, you know that? I suppose that's what I "see" in you. The answer to my question. Like, "Where? Here." "Who? You." "What? This." "When? Now." Now and always. You and I. Yeah?'

'Yeah,' Dorian says weakly, because he has abandoned all sense of self-preservation and sanity for this bastard. 'You're going to break my heart, aren't you?'

'I won't,' says Max. 'I promise. If I do, you can borrow Bull's fear stick and beat me senseless. Then I'll run thirty laps 'round Skyhold, naked and reading out loud from " _Swords & Shields_".'

'Careful,' Dorian warns him. 'A pride demon might hear you.'

'Och, let 'im. He's not gettin' in here. He'd leave in a second, if he got a look, anyway. Mind's a terrible thing to waste, Dorian, and mine's a fucking wasteland.'

'Festis bei umo canavarum,' Dorian sighs.

'Oi--I know that one. That's how you say "I love you" in Tevinter, innit?'

It's a good thing, Dorian reflects, that Max is handsome.

A very, _very_ good thing.


End file.
